The Russell Home: How one little girl left a legacy of love

Sentinel File Photo

Marilyn Barnhill hugs Child Care Assistant Nikki Hallowell at the Russell Home for Atypical Children on June 17, 2005. Marilyn was the first child taken in at the home many years ago. She died Sept. 17.

Marilyn Barnhill hugs Child Care Assistant Nikki Hallowell at the Russell Home for Atypical Children on June 17, 2005. Marilyn was the first child taken in at the home many years ago. She died Sept. 17. (Sentinel File Photo)

Marilyn Barnhill left this earth not all that different from how she arrived. Brain-damaged during birth, she never learned to talk really -- just a few words for her favorite things. And by the end, she couldn't walk, either.

But with a sweet, impish smile and what some say was a pure soul, she would touch the lives of nearly 2,000 children who came after her.

They are the children who have found their way -- for a day or a month or a lifetime -- to the Russell Home for Atypical Children in south Orlando, one of the region's oldest charities and perhaps the most unlikely. The first nonprofit institution in the country for brain-damaged children, it has thrived since 1951 with no federal-, state- or local-government funding.

"Everything here runs on love," the daughters of founder Vantrease "Grandma" Russell like to say.

The same seemed true for Barnhill, the first child taken into the Russell Home, at age 3. Diagnosed with cerebral palsy, she was never supposed to live more than a few years. Maybe, if she were really lucky, she'd get to be a teenager.

Yet when she died in her bed at the Russell Home last week, Barnhill was 64.

"I sometimes look up and ask God, 'Why did you do it like this? I can't understand,' " said Sydney Weimer, the hospice nurse who looked over Marilyn at the end. "But then you look at someone like this, someone who might seem so damaged, and you see how God had a purpose for that little life."

Marilyn moves in

In 1949, Mary Barnhill was a young mother facing an impossible choice. Her husband was slowly dying of brain cancer and needed her to run the family business, the Flamingo Court Motel on Mills Avenue. But the motel demanded almost constant attention, and Mary not only had to take care of her grade-school-aged son, but she also tried to make it to the hospital several times a day to bring her husband meals and sit by his side.

Then there was Marilyn. Despite the parents' search for suitable therapy, nothing seemed to help. The doctors insisted she would need round-the-clock care for the rest of her life.

But Marilyn's pediatrician was also the doctor for the seven Russell children. "Mrs. Russell, I know you have a lot of children," the doctor said one day, "and all the other children in the neighborhood come to your house, but I have a family that could use some help "

And that's how it all began.

Vantrease Russell was smitten with the girl, who, despite her limitations, had a playfulness that few could resist.

"I was quite jealous because Marilyn got an awful lot of attention that I thought I should be getting," said Janet Nixon, 68, who was 7 when Marilyn came to live with her family. "But she was such a joy, and Mother felt like, 'Gee, I could have a hundred of these kids if they were all like Marilyn.' "

Which is how Patsy came to the Russells. And Newton. And Warren. And Amy and Kimberly and Bobby and Lisa -- and dozens more -- who all joined the Russell household over the years, as news of the home spread simply by word of mouth.

And for 61 years, without fail, Mary Barnhill -- now Mary Starr -- came to visit her only daughter at least once or twice a week, though Marilyn never really grew up. Oddly, her hair never turned gray. Even at the end, her skin was as smooth as a 20-year-old's.

"I know she got a lot of love, not only from Mrs. Russell when she was alive, but also from her daughters, who have carried on just as she would have," said Starr, 93. "It became like my second home."

'The pillar of our home'

Marilyn only grew to about 5 feet tall, and she was always thin. But if she was awake, chances are she was smiling. She would steal a hug at every opportunity and grab the first piece of birthday cake -- no matter whose birthday it was. And she could rock in a rocking chair or swing on a swing for hours, always with bare feet. If you took "her" seat in the family van, she would sit on top of you until you gave up and moved over.

Vantrease Russell died in 2003, and Janet Nixon sold her bed-and-breakfast in Plains, Ga., to come home and run the place. Twenty-five of Grandma Russell's "children," age 6 to 57, still live there.

Six months ago, Marilyn started weakening. The family put her in a wheelchair to keep her from falling, though it didn't keep her out of trouble. "She would wheel that chair all around this house and run into anyone in her way," said Betty Turner, Russell's granddaughter. "She was the pillar of our home -- and she always made us laugh."

But last week, she suddenly turned pale and listless. The doctor said she was tired -- that her condition had taken its toll on her body, and that the end was near.

On Sept. 17, Mary Starr had a sudden urge to visit. She and Nixon sat with Marilyn into the afternoon as someone called the hospice nurse. By the time Weimer arrived, it was almost over. Marilyn was curled in her bed, sleeping, her breath labored.

"She's with Jesus now," Weimer said when the moment came. Mary Starr walked over to her daughter and stroked her hair.

"Good night, baby," Starr whispered. "Sweet dreams."

Somewhere in the gardens outside the family home, Janet Nixon plans to build a small memorial to her sister Marilyn, the child who started a mission.

Donations to Marilyn Barnhill's memorial can be sent to the Russell Home for Atypical Children,
510 Holden Ave., Orlando, FL 32839.

Kate Santich can be reached at 407-420-5503 or ksantich@orlandosentinel.com.